


Shake the Shadows From Over My Head

by CallistoNicol



Category: MCU, Marvel Cinematic Universe, sifki - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Mischief and Mistletoe 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:41:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21909142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CallistoNicol/pseuds/CallistoNicol
Summary: Sif is suffering the effects of hypothermia and the only way to help her is, obviously, to jump in bed with her. And if other things happen to occur, it's not like Loki will complain.However, that plan is blown to bits when she seems to get worse, not better. Why isn't this working?
Relationships: Loki/Sif (Marvel), sifki
Comments: 29
Kudos: 70
Collections: Mischief and Mistletoe 2019





	Shake the Shadows From Over My Head

**Author's Note:**

  * For [a_ufo_party](https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_ufo_party/gifts).



> Merry Christmas to a_ufo_party! You asked for a trope, so that's what I started with! Then I kept writing and infused feelings, but hopefully you find that acceptable. :D

Icy cold enveloped Loki and he gasped for breath. A mistake, as he had plunged head first into the icy river and now had a mouthful of water to choke on. Worth it, however, because now he could see Sif struggling to surface some ten feet off his left side. Swimming toward her, he wrapped an arm around her waist and towed her upward. Once he hauled the pair of them onto the bank, he gave in to his need to cough up all the water he’d ingested, then turned Sif on her side so she could do the same.

He didn’t think she’d been under long enough to do much damage, but Sif was shivering uncontrollably. They needed shelter immediately, and needed to get into dry clothes. That, at least, was easy enough to take care of, which he did with a wave of his hand, their clothing instantly dry. Sif didn’t seem to notice; if anything, her shivers turned more violent. 

With a growl, Loki picked her up and teleported them back to his tent.

Not fifteen minutes ago they’d been enjoying a mid-morning stroll along the riverbank when an unexpected spring snowstorm sprang up. The temperature dropped close to forty degrees in mere minutes as snow started piling up. Finding it a lark, Loki and Sif had danced in the snow, frolicking through it like children, until Sif discovered a very slippery rock. She tripped, bashed her head against the rock, and tumbled into the river originating from the glacier perched atop the mountain, making the waters icy year round. 

Now the wind was starting to howl, making this a blizzard and not just a snowstorm. Loki could see the snow drifts forming at the base of his tent. At least it would help insulate the tent, making for a cozier atmosphere to help warm Sif. 

Fire was out of the question as his tent wasn’t vented for it and he didn’t fancy dying a fiery death. Eyeing the bedroll, Loki recalled early survival lessons that said sharing body heat with minimal clothing was the best way to warm up a freezing companion. He also recalled the females of his acquaintance reading romances and gushing about favored tropes, one of which being the two romantic leads needing to hop in bed together to prevent hypothermia, which naturally led to events of a more amorous nature. Not that Loki expected Sif to ever associate the word _amorous_ with him, but he certainly associated it with her, and the idea of jumping into the bedroll with her, no matter how innocent the reason, made him question the sanity of such a plan. 

However, Sif was shivering uncontrollably. He couldn’t think of a better option, so with a wave of his hand he removed their clothing until all that remained was their underthings, and carefully slipped both of them into his bedroll.

Loki hadn’t expected instantaneous miracles (at least, not that he would verbalize), but as the minutes ticked by and Sif’s shivering only seemed to grow worse, he couldn’t help but feel disappointed. Hadn’t the torrid romances guaranteed that not only would this work, but once warmed, Sif would discover her undying love for him and act upon it? 

Maybe that was going a bit too far--these days he’d settle for her vaguely admitting he could be attractive to some female somewhere, even if said female was a distant cousin to the bilgesnipe--but at the very least he’d expected a cessation of shivers. He frowned as he lightly touched her shoulder. It was cold to the touch. Moving his hand down her arm, he discovered no change. Perhaps it was just her extremities that were icy? With a murmured “Forgive me,” he placed his hand on her stomach. Cold. Flipping his hand over, the more sensitive back of his hand found the same result. 

Loki’s frown deepened. Something was seriously wrong if skin-on-skin contact had no effect. 

His only other recourse was magic, but warming an individual was a delicate process that could very easily go disastrously wrong. He’d already ruled out fire, and had dried both of them off. Perhaps the air was a factor. Focusing on his seidr, Loki delicately reached out to the air molecules. It took great focus, for warming them too much could overheat the tented space and cause death by heat stroke before he had a chance to correct the problem. Most people did not realize how quickly temperature could increase when an entire space was altered. 

Weaving his magic finer than a spider’s web, Loki increased the temperature. Immediately sweat ran in rivulets down his temples, plastering his dark hair to his face. He released his magic, not wanting to risk any further heat, though he could not tell if it was adequately warm. Loki had always preferred the cold, finding any measure of heat unbearable. To him, this tent was stifling, but without a conscious Sif’s opinions, he could not accurately gauge if it was warm enough for her. 

Gathering Sif into his arms, Loki tried to meld their bodies together, hoping hers would react to the combined efforts of his body heat and the increase in temperature to calm her raging shivers and waken her. He counted off the seconds in his head. When he hit the three minute mark and she showed no signs of improvement, he began to feel true worry. 

Maneuvering an arm between them, Loki gently placed his hand over her heart, ignoring the intimacy of the moment. Her heart was racing in a futile attempt to pump adequate blood to the rest of her body. Still Sif did not warm and did not waken. “Don’t give up on me now, Shieldmaiden,” Loki murmured, worry leaking into his words. 

If he could not help Sif, perhaps it was time to call for help. The Bifrost was out of the question; she was too weak to go hurtling through space. But they were not on their adventure alone, and though hearing through the howls of the storm would be difficult, Loki had other means of communication. 

Bowing his head, he left his physical body behind with Sif, sending his conscious-controlled illusion to Thor’s tent where his brother was playing a rowdy game of stones against Fandral, with Volstagg and Hogun looking on. 

Hogun was the first to catch sight of Loki’s form and would have taken his head off had Loki been present physically. “Do not startle a warrior,” Hogun said, resheathing his sword as the others laughed. “It can have dire consequences.”

Loki ignored him, focusing on his grinning brother. “Help,” he said desperately. “I’m losing Sif.”

The revelry came to an immediate end as four grim warriors leapt into action. Advising them to come to his tent, Loki vanished, bringing his attention back to Sif. She was unchanged. 

Seconds later his tent flap flew open, allowing the four warriors entrance. Fandral, taking in their unclothed state, looked ready to make a no doubt raunchy remark, but something stilled his tongue. “She’s icy to the touch, and I cannot wake her,” Loki said, sure his desperation was apparent in wild eyes. 

“Worrisome, given how warm it is in here,” Volstagg said, removing his outer wrap. 

Thor stripped down. “Move, brother,” he said, “and let’s see if another can help.”

Bitter resentment struck Loki. How dare Thor come in and assume he could succeed where Loki could not. How dare he tread on Loki’s turf, once again attempting to steal all the glory. Except that was exactly why Loki had called for help. He was incapable of aiding Sif, and the humiliation of losing ( _again_ ) to his brother was better than watching her slip away into a permanent, icy sleep. Keeping his feelings to himself, Loki said nothing as he vacated his blankets, allowing Thor to slip in and wrap Sif in a tight embrace.

The effects were immediate. 

Color slowly returned to Sif’s blanched face, and she started breathing easier. She did not waken immediately, but shifted ever so slightly toward Thor. Loki clenched his teeth against the unwarranted biting insult he wanted to fling at his brother; thankfully, none of the tent’s occupants noticed, focused as they were on Sif. 

As Sif slowly warmed, the Three chatted quietly, ignoring Loki. He did not dress, as he was already sweating in his overheated tent. The temperature was nigh unbearable for his cold-yearning self, but better he suffer discomfort than Sif revert to her hypothermic state. 

At last, Sif’s dark eyes opened to Thor’s grinning visage, and Loki tried not to hate his brother for it. “Thor,” she said, and it was unclear if she was breathless from being wrapped up with him or because she was so recently ill. Loki severely hoped it was the latter. “Where did you come from?”

“Loki called for help when you would not waken, and we came running,” the crown prince answered. 

Sif sighed, cuddling up closer to Thor (betrayal stabbed Loki’s heart, but neither of them owed him anything, so it was merely a betrayal of his own expectations), when she seemed to realize her situation and pushed back from him. That, at least, gave Loki some small satisfaction. “Why are you without clothing?” she demanded of Thor, then glanced down. “Why am _I_ without clothing?”

“A night of raucous trysting,” Fandral sighed happily. “‘Twas most distracting, you know.”

Sif looked properly horrified, but realized Fandral was funning when Volstagg and Hogun started laughing. Loki failed to enjoy the joke at her expense, overcome with relief as he was at her horror. 

Sif started a weak smile, but dropped it promptly upon spotting Loki. Her brows furrowed. “Why is Loki without clothing?”

“Raucous trysting,” Fandral supplied, then hooted at his own joke. 

Sif’s dark eyes bored in Loki’s own, and he could not read the emotion there. “Loki?” she asked softly.

“You were dying, and I could not prevent it,” he said simply. She looked at herself again, looked at Thor who had yet to release her from the comfort of his loose embrace, and returned her gaze to Loki. Concern drew lines on her face, and he knew she had come to the same troubling conclusion he had. 

Why could Thor warm her, but Loki could not?

Fortunately the Morons Three and their Prince Idiot did not seem to notice anything amiss, jesting with each other about trivial matters. When at last Sif was deemed safe from danger, Thor climbed out of Loki’s blankets and redressed, handing Sif her clothes. No one asked how she found herself unconscious and nearly naked in Loki’s bedroll; she was out of danger, so how she arrived mattered not. 

But Loki could not let the matter rest. 

Why could Thor save her, when he could not?

What was wrong with him?

*

Once Sif was returned to her own tent, Loki made quick work of packing and teleported himself back to Asgard via one of his dark channels. He did not have the patience to wait for the end of the storm, nor did he care to be accompanied by his oblivious friends or Sif’s dark, curious eyes. He had questions he needed answered, and he did not desire an audience.

He deposited his gear in his rooms, the clatter of it ringing in his ears as he swept toward the healing hall. Eir, master healer, was about to have an unscheduled visitor. 

With no major battles in recent memory and no current plague, Eir had little to do, so Loki found her in her office, thumbing through ancient scrolls. “Prince Loki,” the healer said with a smile, pausing in her perusal of ancient medical texts. “This is a surprise. I’m not usually graced with visits from one of the princes unless you have a large hole somewhere on your person.”

She had a calming presence, much like Loki’s own mother, and Loki felt some of his tension leech away. Whatever was (or was not) going on wasn’t life-threatening, and probably not life altering, so there was no need to be alarmed. 

“I have a hypothetical for you,” he said, voice light and aloof. Eir’s smile changed from welcoming to calculating; she, like Loki, enjoyed a good challenge. “Hypothermia. It is best treated by warming the victim, sometimes by use of another’s body heat. Tell me, what happens when that body heat is ineffective?”

Dropping the scrolls entirely, Eir rested her chin on her hands. “That depends. I need more information. Is the second individual also suffering from hypothermia?”

“No.”

“Is the attending drunk? A great deal of ale can make one lose control of one’s faculties, and it would not be unheard of for the supposed giver of body heat to actually be a practice dummy.”

This provoked a tiny smile, for Loki had no doubt Fandral or Thor would be so deep in their cups as to try something so ineffective. 

“No,” he said again. “There are only two individuals present, the victim and a clear-headed caregiver who crawled into the bedroll with the victim, but no matter what was attempted, could do nothing to warm her.”

Eir tapped her bottom lip thoughtfully. “Are you certain the caregiver doesn’t also have hypothermia? It is not uncommon to be unaware--but even then, residual body heat trapped in the blankets would eventually start to take effect.”

“Nothing is working.”

“Then there must be an outside factor,” she declared, looking at him, “for only a--”

Abruptly Eir cut off as she peered intently at Loki. Clearly she no longer considered the situation hypothetical and equally clearly, she knew something Loki didn’t. 

“What happened?” she demanded, pleasant conversational tone replaced by inquiring healer voice. “Did one of your friends die?”

“No. But Sif almost did.”

She gave him another penetrating look, the abruptly stood. “I have research to conduct. I will be in contact when I have something to share,” she said and swept from the room.

It did nothing to settle Loki’s mind. Agitated, he made for the training yards. Sparring was not his usual preference for stress release, but magic required too much focus of mind for his jumbled thoughts. He needed to relax the body before he could engage the mind.

Loki wasn’t as proficient with weapons as Thor, but being the son of the Allfather meant regular and repeated lessons, so he was better than the average Einherjar, making him a decent challenge. So few of the regular soldiers could hold their own against Thor that they rarely tried, leaving him to battle with the Three and Sif. Loki, when he could be persuaded to join the training yards, always had a line of challengers, for there was honour to be had in besting him. 

Grabbing a spear, he shed his cloak as he entered the arena and immediately stabbed the first opponent he saw. Within seconds he was surrounded by eager young men desperate to prove themselves, and Loki set to work.

He wasn’t good enough to gain Odin’s approval.

He wasn’t good enough to save Sif.

But he was good enough to pound in a few heads. 

By the time he was through, Loki had several large gashes, was bleeding freely from his forehead, and debatably had a broken arm, though the pain had a difficult time piercing his cloud of thought. Moaning bodies were littered about the yard, Loki noticed proudly. Even Odin would approve of this spectacle, should he ever deign to spare a moment for his younger son.

“Well fought, my prince,” a soldier said, leaning heavily against his own spear. 

Loki nodded in return. “You as well. The challenge was invigorating.” The man nodded once more before limping off. Standing carefully, Loki made sure he wasn’t sporting a fatal wound before hobbling off to his rooms for a relaxing bath. None of his injuries were so severe that he could not handle them himself, and he anticipated with relish the impending sting of hot water on sore wounds. 

He didn’t intend to soak for long, but the warm water was so inviting he stayed put for nearly an hour, head resting against the lip of the tub. His thoughts weren’t particularly coherent, mere fragments passing by. Sif drifted around in there, along with pride over his battles won, concern about Eir’s rushed exit, wondering if he could live the remainder of his life in the tub, with images of food and wine twining around the loose thoughts.

The water slowly turned tepid, then cool, which finally prompted Loki to get up. Wrapping himself in a thick towel, he turned around and came face to face with his mother. He yelped. 

“What are you doing in here?” he demanded, clutching his wrap close. 

“Investigating your death by drowning,” Frigga said. “You’ve languished in the tub for an absurd amount of time.”

“I’m disturbed you know that,” Loki replied, pushing past her into his room. If she was going to follow him, he was going to give her a show--not that he suspected she would care, given she had birthed him and changed his soiled underthings as an infant. 

Dropping his towel, Loki widened his stance as he peered into his wardrobe. 

“I’ll wait for you in your sitting room,” Frigga said, voice amused. 

The second her soft footfalls exited his room, Loki flushed from head to toe and quickly shimmied into something black, attaching a green cape. Nonchalant nudity in front of his friends or the Einherjar was one thing, but in front of his mother--thank goodness no one else had been present to witness it!

He took extra care styling his hair to give his flushed features time to calm down before joining Frigga in the sitting room. He looked particularly fine with so much grooming; ‘twas a pity he’d left Sif behind so she could not witness his finery. 

In his sitting room, Frigga was twirling a thousand balls of light in intricate patterns, casting fluid shadows on his floor. It was mesmerizing to watch. She’d showcased a similar trick when he was a small boy, first piquing his interest in magic over the sword. Odin had been vastly displeased, but Loki remembered his mother’s secret smile when he announced he’d rather be a sorcerer than a warrior. 

“What brings you to my chambers, Mother?” Loki asked, gracefully perching on his settee. 

Her lights continued to dance around her fingers. “I just had an interesting visit from Eir.”

Loki stiffened. He didn’t know speaking with the healer would result in his mummy being called. “Was her presence an intrusion?” he asked conversationally. 

“Don’t play casual with me,” she chided. “You know she came to me because of you.”

Frigga was not one to get to the point. “Are you concerned?” he demanded, leaning forward. “Should _I_ be? And concerned about what?”

“Such haste,” Frigga murmured. “The path before us is long, Loki; no need to scurry along.”

He flung himself back so his hair hung off the back of his settee. “When my mother approaches me after I’ve approached the head healer over something trivial and mundane, I see much reason to scurry, Mother.”

“Trivial and mundane?” Frigga asked, her lights increasing in speed. “So you don’t have a vested interest in Sif’s wellbeing. I see. I shall inform Thor.”

Summoning a fireball, Loki lobbed it at Frigga’s dancing lights, scattering the lot. “Your levity is uncalled for,” he said coolly.

She smiled knowingly at him, crafting new lights. “You cannot lie to me, son. I have watched you pine for our shieldmaiden these four hundred years. Have you ever considered taking a step toward her? She is not so cold as you imagine her.”

“You worry I fear rejection? Hardly. Mother, I know Sif, which is _why_ I do not pursue her. It is not fear holding me back, but knowledge. There is no need to place my hand in the fire to know it will burn.”

Frigga said nothing, concentrating on her lights. They broke into two separate swirling sections, one flashing emerald, the other scarlet. They twined around each other, never touching, until suddenly the lights were so intermixed Loki did not think he could pull them all apart. 

Not that it stopped him from trying. Tapping into his seidr, he reached out and snatched a section of Frigga’s lights, bringing them to a standstill in his hand. He’d meant to only grab the emerald ones, but there were several scarlet intermixed. Rather than separate them, he tried to alter the makeup of the lights, but found Frigga’s seidr a formidable barrier. She gave him a knowing smile, so with a flick of his fingers he cast an illusion to make the scarlet lights appear green.

“External alterations don’t affect internal makeup,” Frigga chided, dismantling his illusion. 

Loki released his seidr, the lights vanishing. His room felt dimmer for the lack. 

“Why are you here?” he asked again.

“Tell me what happened,” she replied. He made to argue, but she forestalled him with a raised hand, her lights hovering around her delicate fingers. “I need to know so I may answer the question you want answered, and not the one you will ask.”

He grimaced, but could not argue with her. What he really wanted to know he was afraid to ask, and if he could ask it without saying it…

So he recited to his mother the events of the day, leaving nothing out, for she seemed to know all anyway. 

At the conclusion of his tale, he sat in silence, awaiting his mother’s verdict. She looked troubled, not an expression she was accustomed to wearing. It aged her. 

“There is something you do not know,” she said hesitantly.

“Yes, thank you, I had worked that out for myself,” he said dryly. 

She ignored his flippant remark, still looking troubled. “I should have your father’s approval to share this,” she said, “but I doubt he would grant it, and this is information that should be in your possession.”

Loki’s worry vanished in the face of a tantalizing secret, especially one Odin disapproved of. Anything his father disapproved of, he was interested in. 

He reached out to lightly touch his mother’s hands. To his surprise, she gripped his, her lights vanishing. “The telling is difficult,” she confessed, “and I don’t know if you’ll believe me. Showing is easier than telling, in this instance.” And she dissolved the space around them, reappearing in the Vault. 

Loki looked around at the many trophies and relics collected by the Allfather over the centuries, everything from priceless jewels to body parts of their slain enemies. He hadn’t frequented the space much, as Odin was overly picky about who he let view his possessions, so it had been several hundred years since Loki last set foot in here. Releasing Frigga’s hands, he started moving toward the far end of the chamber, for it felt right to go there. Some of the more interesting objects were located down here, and they were what he wished to view.

“You feel it, don’t you?” Frigga asked, her soft voice permeating the silence. 

Before she spoke, Loki hadn’t been aware of anything outside himself, but now he could feel the faintest rhythmic pulse drawing him to the far end of the chamber, where the Casket of Ancient Winters stood. “What is it?” he asked, moving ever nearer. Reaching out his hands, he lightly stroked the Casket. Immediately something altered. He snatched back his hand, though he wasn’t certain why. Reaching out again, he touched the item, leaving his hand in place. It started to morph before his eyes, the skin of his fingertips slowly turning blue. Reaching out the other hand, he grasped the Casket firmly, watching in fascinated horror as his whole body turned blue, geometric patterns raising on his skin. “Mother,” he gasped, his voice sounding foreign and far off. 

Frigga moved to stand beside him, her solemn eyes casting deep sorrow and deep love toward him. “Yes,” she said quietly. “You are more than what you seem.”

“What am I?” he croaked, his voice sounding unused. 

“My son. The prince of this realm.”

“What more than that?” he asked harshly, dropping the Casket, feeling great relief as the bumps vanished and his skin became Aesir-hued once again. 

“Jotun.”

The word rang out like a gong, striking Loki to his very core. 

Jotun.

Frost Giant.

Monster.

Good thing he had never pursued Sif, for she would never look at him now.

“How?” he asked desperately.

Frigga told him a tale of war, of sorrow and loss, of hope and triumph, of Odin finding a blue infant in the snow and bringing it home, a living stolen relic of a world Odin himself had condemned. 

No wonder Loki hadn’t been able to warm Sif. Ice ran through his veins, his heart no doubt a large lump of frozen tissue. 

He was a war orphan, son of a monster. Son of _the_ monster, Laufey, king of the Jotuns. And now he was the adopted son of Asgard’s monster, the Allfather. 

“You knew?” he asked his mother quietly.

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t see fit to tell me.”

She gave him a look, one indecipherable and heart wrenching. “I love you,” she said, the truth of her words tinged with desperation. 

But Loki was beyond feeling, and could not spare a single care for his mother’s anguish, for it paled in comparison to his own. He’d always felt slighted by his father, felt second best to his brother, despite being told he was born to be a king. What a play on words that had been! Loki, Silvertongue himself, could not interpret Odin’s double meaning, and so thought he might actually be worthy to one day sit on the throne of Asgard. What a farce. 

“Did you ever plan to tell me?” he asked his mother, turning toward her her, danger glinting in his eyes. “Or was I to walk this Realm the remainder of my life, unaware of my true heritage? Did you really think you could get away with that? Tell me, what did you plan to say when I wed and attempted procreation? Was my wife simply to birth an abomination with no warning? Or would you tell me as she was crying out with birthing pains, attempting, and failing, to bring a second generation of monster into the palace?”

“Loki, we--”

“ _No excuses,_ ” he said harshly. “Your paltry words are meaningless in the face of your actions! What behaviour, Mother--if I can even call you that.” Staring into her damp eyes, years of hurt rejection, and self-doubt clawed its way to the surface. “I used to wonder if I was your bastard offspring,” he said cruelly, “for it seemed to me I could not be related to Odin. Foolish me, for failing to live up even to that substandard moniker.”

Without waiting for an answer, he slipped into the shadow realm and left.

**

It took three days for the blizzard to stop howling, and for the duration Sif stayed huddled in her blankets, wishing Loki was with her. For one thing, though healing magic wasn’t his specialty, he had fine tuned a simple pain relief spell, and her head would was throbbing from where she hit that rock. Even if Loki was useless with medicine, having him there would distracted her. His snide remarks, though often inappropriate, were amusing, and his clever tongue could occupy her mind for hours. Formal schooling had never been her interest, but when she conversed with Loki she wished she knew enough to keep up with him. 

Not to mention she wanted to find out exactly why he was in his skivvies when she awoke in the circle of Thor’s embrace. At one point, a few centuries ago, waking up in Thor’s arms was her only desire, but now that it had actually happened, she only wished it had been Loki in the blankets with her.

Though she spent much of her spare time with the younger prince, her thoughts were rarely occupied by him, making this a novel experience. Was she developing feelings for him? Judging by the warmth in the center of her breast, perhaps she was.

Could he feel the same way about her?

It was unknown to her whether or not Loki had any paramours, for unlike her other friends, he did not boast of them. At one point he’d been entangled with Sigyn, but that was decades--perhaps centuries--ago, and she could not recall seeing him with a woman in recent memory. That didn’t mean he wasn’t with one; Loki was sneaky and sly, and could undoubtedly bed half the court without the other half ever knowing. But it gave her hope that the only name she could attach to his was hers. 

She wished he would pop in to visit. 

Blizzard or not, it did not prevent Thor from hopping in daily to spend a few hours teasing her about being alone with Loki, nearly naked in his bedroll. She took his jests in good humour, repeatedly reminding him that he was the one who warmed the cockles of her heart. Thor’s loud laugh filled the small tent, bringing life to the otherwise dull atmosphere. 

On the third day, she asked him the ever present question in the back of her mind. “Why could you warm me, when Loki could not?”

“I am not a cold-hearted thief?” Thor joked. “He stole all your good will and used it to warm himself.”

Sif gave an obligatory smile, then said, “I’m serious. He looked so distressed standing over us, concern etched in his face.”

Adjusting to match her somber tone, Thor said thoughtfully, “I don’t know. He also plunged into the icy river, so perhaps he hadn’t warmed himself enough to be of use to you.”

“But then huddling together should have done _some_ good,” she reasoned.

“Perhaps there simply wasn’t enough friction,” Thor answered, grinning lasciviously.

Perhaps not, but with her half-dead, it was little wonder. “Friction isn’t effective if one party is on the brink of permanently slipping under,” she told him. “And Loki has enough honour to not engage in unwanted amorous activities.” 

To her astonishment, Thor appeared surprised. “Unwanted?” he asked, stroking his beard. “I thought you two were--”

“Me? And Loki?” she asked, shocked, despite herself having just come to the conclusion that that would not be a wholly undesirable outcome. “Whatever gave you that thought?”

Thor shrugged nonchalantly. “You two are always together, and when you are not, you are speaking of the other. He stares after you, you know, and though you don’t stare back, I thought it was because of some game you are playing.”

Her heart started thumping noticeably in her chest. Loki looked at her? Enough that Thor, prince of the oblivious, noticed? The idea sat pleasantly in her stomach, warming her through as Thor’s body curled around hers had not. “Honestly, I’d given him no thought until these last few days. Do you really think…?” and she trailed off, not certain how to end that sentence. 

“I think if you want it, Fandral’s jokes of raucous trysting will become reality.” He held up a hand. “But if they do, please, for the love of the Allfather, don’t subject the rest of us to it when we go on a quest!”

“It would serve you right, after every maiden and tavern wench you--”

“There is a difference between a tavern wench and my brother and close friend!”

Sif smiled widely at him. “I make no promises.”

At the end of the three-day blizzard, Sif had regained enough strength to venture out of her tent, along with the Warriors Three and Thor. She immediately made for Loki’s tent, which she promptly discovered was naught but an illusion. “It explains why we haven’t heard from him since the onset of the blizzard,” Fandral remarked, poking a hand through the perfectly crafted illusion. “When do you think he left?”

“As soon as we left his tent,” Hogun said. “He was upset about something.”

About me, Sif thought, and his inability to save me. “I will return to Asgard to seek him out,” she informed the party. “You lot should continue with the mission.”

There was momentary debate over her plan, but all quickly agreed to it. Sif gathered her belongings while Volstagg took down her tent and Fandral transferred her food and medical supplies to his bag as she would no longer need them. With a quick farewell, Sif summoned her half-brother Heimdall, the Bifrost appearing to take her home.

Heimdall greeted her with a deep nod, his eyes never quite landing on her as they saw far off into the distance. The siblings rarely spoke, but Sif made an exception on this occasion. “When did Loki return?” 

Heimdalls’ eyes focused briefly on her. “He did not travel using the Bifrost.”

“Not what I asked.”

“I do not have a specific time, but he has been in Asgard most of these past three days.”

So Hogun was correct. Nodding again at the Gatekeeper, Sif made for her rooms to deposit her gear, then headed for the healing halls. She wasn’t certain what sort of reception Loki would provide, so she ought to be in top form to face whatever he threw her way. 

*

Eir greeted her at the door. “Heimdall alerted me to your presence,” the healer kindly said, leading Sif to a private screening area usually reserved for the royal family. “I hear you've had quite an adventure.”

“I’ve had worse,” Sif admitted, sitting on the examination bed as Eir gently sifted through her hair. “Back left side. Did Loki tell you I had a head injury?” 

Eir made a noise of assent as she located the mostly healed wound. She tsked. “You need a proper washing,” she admonished Sif. “There’s dirt here, which can get in the way of even the most magical healing. Give your head a good scrub and you’ll be just fine.”

“No residual effects from hypothermia?”

“Oh-ho, that is a different question entirely,” Eir said with a smile that made Sif’s skin tingle. 

“Excuse me?”

“There are residual effects, all right,” Eir said, standing back. “You, on the other hand, are fit as a fiddle. Or you will be, once you take a bath. I hear the younger prince has sequestered himself in his rooms, if you need assistance. Now out. I have work to see to.”

And Sif found herself pushed out of the healing hall into the corridor.

“Assistance?” she asked, then promptly realized what Eir was insinuating and coloured up. She had barely started entertaining the idea herself--where was Eir getting such ideas? Perhaps Loki really was interested, and far less subtle about showing it than he thought, if the head healer was making insinuations. 

Still. Assistance in the bath was not such a bad idea. 

But not from Loki. Sif could not ask for such a thing before speaking to him of other things. 

She made her way to the public baths, knowing an attendant or other bather would be able to help, and ran into the Allmother. “Sif,” the Allmother said pleasantly, “let me walk with you to your destination.” She looped her arm through Sif’s and promptly began guiding her to an entirely new destination. Sif knew better than to correct Frigga, though she thought longingly of her bath. _Later_ , she promised the warm waters. 

Frigga mindlessly chatted about the state of Asgard as she directed Sif toward the royal family apartments, leaving no room for Sif to interject any commentary, and no room to wonder where they were headed. Her anxiety momentarily spiked for she had explicitly wanted to wash before facing Loki, but really, he’d seen her nearly naked and covered in blood, so already this was a step up. 

Outside of Loki’s rooms, Frigga finally drew breath long enough for Sif to speak. “I was heading to the baths before intending to come here,” she said. “I thought cleanliness would be a necessary armour before facing your son.”

Frigga shared a sad smile. “I doubt it matters, my child. I’m not even convinced Loki will let you in, but you are my final hope. He has been locked away in here since returning, refusing any audience. I’m not even certain he’s eaten. I know you two are close, and I hope he will at least let you in.”

“He’s refused an interview from you?” Sif asked, surprised. “But he adores you!”

If it was possible, Frigga’s smile turned even sadder. “Our relationship has been momentarily interrupted.”

With that ominous statement, Frigga knocked gently on the door. “Loki, sweetie,” she called, “Sif is here to see you.”

The door iced over.

Sif’s eyes went wide. “Can he do that?” she demanded. 

“Clearly.”

“No, I mean is he allowed to be so rude to the Allmother?”

“Perhaps not, but _his_ mother, now, that’s a different story.”

Wishing she had her gloves, Sif marched up to the door and pounded on it, the harsh ice scratching and cutting her skin. “Open up, Silvertongue!” she bellowed.

No response.

“Excuse me one moment,” Sif said, hurrying to Thor’s rooms. His doors were always locked, but he’d had them specifically spelled to allow entry for his family, Sif, and the Warriors Three. Taking advantage of this show of trust, Sif barged into his rooms and headed straight for his personal armoury. She selected a large axe and returned to Loki’s door. 

Frigga had vanished.

Sif made quick work of Loki’s door, her irritation and worry fueling her swings. The ice easily gave way beneath her axe, and the door, an ancient wooden structure previously standing for millennia, gave little resistance to her onslaught. 

Once she’d gained access, Sif stepped into Loki’s rooms, set down the axe, and was immediately enveloped in darkness.

“Loki, what childishness is this?” she demanded, standing still rather than run into furniture, which would no doubt be amusing the petulant prince. 

Silence was her only response. 

“You saved my life, you know,” she called into the inky darkness. “If you hadn’t leapt into the icy waters after me, I wouldn’t be alive now to yell at you.”

Still no response. 

She sighed. He was going to make her come in after him, wasn’t he? An elaborate game of hide and seek, where she could only hope he wouldn’t slip out the door behind her. 

At least he couldn’t lock her in.

Closing her eyes, Sif opened her other senses, allowing them to guide her. It took a moment, for she was so reliant on sight she often overlooked sound and smell, but once her brain made the adjustment, she could hear quiet breathing nearby, surrounded by the stench of ale and waste. Taking small steps, as she did not know the layout of the terrain, Sif shuffled toward Loki. 

“Loki?” she called out softly, hand outstretched to locate furniture--table, armchair, something large and unidentifiable--to maneuver around. The closer she came to the breathing, the harsher it became. When at last she was standing directly in front of it, the breathing ceased altogether. Reaching out with both hands, she located Loki’s head and grabbed him by the ears--

What were those lines?

Those raised bumps?

Her hands burned with cold. 

“Loki?” she called, yanking back her hands, suddenly unsure as to who occupied the space in front of her.

“Beware monsters in the night,” Loki’s voice whispered. A flash of light illuminated the creature before her, and Sif cried out. Frost Giant! How had it invaded the palace undetected? She regretted leaving the axe by the door.

Darkness encircled her once again, but Sif knew where the intruder was and landed an expert blow to its head. She heard the creature crumple to the floor. Immediately the spell containing the darkness ended, flooding the room with ambient light. At her feet lay the Frost Giant. She kicked it over so its face was pointed up, and she paused. Its face...it looked so much like Loki…

Sif was unfamiliar with Frost Giant magic, but facing her sworn enemy, she vowed to learn more of them, for what fearsome creature could so wholly adopt Loki’s look, distorting it so horribly to appear Jotun? Had the creature seen an image and reproduced it, or had it studied Loki? 

Loki!

Whirling around, Sif could not see him anywhere in the room. She made quick work of tying up the enemy--surely the Allfather would want to question it, discover how it made its way undetected in to the palace--and frantically searched the apartment for her missing friend, tossing furniture and blankets aside, searching under, over, around, and in any space or crevice he might be stuffed, but her efforts were fruitless. Loki was not in his apartments. 

Retrieving a pair of Loki’s gloves to protect her from the Jotun’s icy touch, Sif marched back to her prisoner, hauled it to its feet and tied it to a heavy wooden chair, then slapped the Jotun’s face until it woke. “What have you done with him?” she hissed. The Jotun blinked wearily at her, recovering slowly from the head injury. “Tell me were you have stashed Loki, and you may yet live.”

It took a minute, but the creature finally processed her words and started laughing, a harsh, self-deprecating sound. It sounded remarkably like Loki; how had it made a template of Loki’s voice, imitated his laugh so perfectly? It should be impossible. “Where is he?” she shouted.

“We are all blind to that which we’d rather not see,” the creature said, its lips curling into a perfect sneer. “Even when it stares us in the face and we have no option but to accept it for what it is.”

“I don’t understand.”

“That is quite obvious.”

Frustrated, Sif tried to parse through his words. The obvious thing staring her in the face...if that was a literal comment, the Jotun was staring at her. What was it about him that she would rather not see?

His eyes.

His nose.

His lips.

His voice.

A horrible sinking sensation crawled through her. “Loki…?” she whispered, hardly daring to believe it. 

“I do believe you mean Monster.”

Emotions warred within her. This was Loki, the man she had just been contemplating loving, and yet this was a Jotun, the monster of her childhood nightmares. 

Who was he, really? “I still don’t understand,” she whispered. “Is this an illusion? Who are you trying to frighten?”

He laughed again, a bitter sound. “Only my father.”

And with startling clarity, the pieces connected. “By the Norns, you’re not Asgardian,” she said, shocked.

“By the Norns, no I’m not.”

“Have you ever been, or has your facade always been a lie?”

“The greatest irony of them all,” Loki the Jotun said, “is that the silver tongued liar is himself a lie. Now get out.” Darkness re-enveloped the room as an unseen force shoved Sif back into the hallway, and the broken door reformed, now appearing as solid steel.

Sif wasted no time hunting down the Allmother, finding her in her own rooms, anxiously pacing. Usually Sif addressed Frigga with nothing but respect, both for her position as Allmother and her role as Loki’s and Thor’s mother, but today Sif only held anger. “What is the meaning of this?” Sif demanded, slamming Frigga’s door behind her. “Loki is Jotun! And you must know, yet you sent me in there unawares? You withheld precious information that completely altered the battleground! I don’t know who’s more humiliated, Loki or myself, and I have a healthy dose of terror to tack on to that! He’s a Frost Giant! How can you let such a monster wander the hallowed halls of Gladsheim?”

Frigga’s anxiety vanished, her poise returned and her voice sharp as she snapped, “My son is not a monster. Mind you hold your tongue, or I’ll remove it for you!”

It was the threat, more than the motherly outrage, that stilled Sif’s tongue and cut through her anger enough for her to calm down. Yelling would solve nothing, and a hostile informant never responded as well as a placated one. 

Taking several deep breaths, Sif did not speak until her tone was measured and even. “Has he always been Jotun?”

“Since the day of his birth, yes.”

That answer gave Sif pause, as she considered whether Loki was Frigga’s natural born child or not. “Does the Allfather know?” she asked carefully.

“As he is the one who brought Loki home, yes, he does.”

A foundling, then. Sympathy surged through Sif, which she quickly squashed. It did not do to feel for a monster. 

Even if that monster was one of her dearest friends.

Confusion filled Sif. “How long has Loki known?”

“Since he could not warm you.”

Three days, then, since Loki discovered his true heritage, on the same day he could do naught to save her, resorting to Thor to do what he could not. How that must have stung! Worse, to not even know why.

Sif shook her head. Her emotions were bouncing from one end of the spectrum to the other, from outrage, hurt, and betrayal, to empathy, sympathy, and kindness. She did not know how she was supposed to feel. “How could you keep this knowledge from us?” she demanded of the Allmother. “How could you keep such a monumental secret from him, and those of us closest to him?”

Frigga’s stare cut to Sif’s core. “Your reaction is justifying our decision to keep it silent,” she said. “I would not have my son thought a monster when he is nothing of the sort.”

“He’s Jotun!” Sif cried, flinging one arm in his general direction. “We have been taught from birth that those of Jotunheim _are_ monsters, whose lives are forfeit should we find one. _Since birth_ , Allmother. _Never_ , not once in all my days, has _anyone_ \--” this word was said fiercely and entirely directed at Frigga “--thought to indicate anything to the contrary. Yet you stand there and declare Loki your beloved son, and do not see the contradiction? Either he is a monster as we have been taught, or Jotuns are not as evil as we’ve been led to believe, and I don’t know which way the pendulum swings!” 

The rigidity in Frigga’s shoulders collapsed as her head dropped, her chin nearly touching her chest. To see such vulnerability in the Allmother was disconcerting, and it threw Sif off balance. “You are right, of course,” Frigga said, tears lacing her voice. “We should have long since started a campaign to normalize our Jotun brethren, yet the Allfather and I kept putting it off, for to affect to change public opinion, though not an insurmountable task, could easily prove to be so if we could not justify our seemingly newfound viewpoint. We did not know how to bring the populace about without baring the secret of Loki’s birth, and that was no one’s business but ours. We certainly couldn’t tell the whole of Asgard before we told him, and how could we tell him while he yet believed, as you do, that his people are monsters?”

“A problem you should have long since addressed!” It was Sif’s turn to pace anxiously, full of pent up energy she did not know what to do with. “If I’m struggling to understand this, imagine how Loki must feel! His entire world has been ripped away from him and he has nowhere to land, and you, the one rock in his life, are the perpetrator of this betrayal.” Tears welled up as Sif considered her friend’s plight, pity for him momentarily overruling disgust. “He lives in literal darkness, Allmother, so black I could not see my hand in front of my face. If it is a reflection of his soul, I fear you have ruined him. I do not know how he can be healed.”

“But you desire to assist,” Frigga said, her voice full of hope. Sif whirled around, the hope painted on Frigga’s face painful to witness.

“Do not pin this on me,” Sif said harshly. “I do not know if I wish to help. He is--” But she could not say what he was, not again. 

“He is Loki,” Frigga said firmly. “As he has always been. The colour of his skin does not alter who he inherently is.”

“Doesn’t it?” Sif said. “He is not any skin tone common to the Aesir, but one of our enemy.”

“The colour of your skin does not determine the quality of your character,” Frigga said sharply. “Blue is not the colour of evil.”

Recalling every lesson she’d ever had on the inherent evil of the Jotuns, Sif wished she could agree with the Allmother. “I need to think,” she said, and strode out of the Allmother’s apartments without a backward glance.

*

Foregoing the public baths, Sif returned to her own quarters to clean up. She could not face anyone else right now, not with her inner turmoil painted across her face. 

Filling her own tub, Sif descended beneath the near-scalding water, letting the water’s heat work its magic on the ice in her veins. She’d been cold since her fall into the icy river, and her recent discovery about Loki made her feel a different sort of cold.

Tears dripped down her cheeks to land in the water. She didn’t know what to think. 

He was Loki, close friend, confidante, the man she wanted to love her.

He was Frost Giant, the enemy she wanted to slay to gain glory. 

Could he be both?

It seemed incongruous. 

Letting go of her thoughts, Sif focused on the warmth of the water, letting it envelope her until floating was her life’s purpose. She thought of nothing, felt nothing, allowing her self to just be.

How long she remained in the bath she didn’t know, but she stayed as the water grew tepid, then cool, waiting until she found a sense of peace and equilibrium. Finally centered, Sif emerged from the water, dripping it all over the floor as she wrapped herself in a towel, moving to the bed. She was in desperate need of a nap, for she had a self-imposed mission to accomplish, and she needed the inner strength to face her enemy.

After all, she had to learn to love what she hated.

*

First, Sif had to find Loki buried beneath his darkness and depression. It didn’t take long. “Have you washed since you returned?” she asked, her nose wrinkling. The benefit of his door being just an illusion was her ability to walk through it, and Loki’s apparent apathy regarding life meant he exerted no effort to prevent it. Unfortunately, illusions also did not hide smells, and the stench of unwashed body mixed with waste was so much more potent than it had been yesterday.

Loki did not answer or even acknowledge her presence. He could have possibly rolled his head to look at her, but in the darkness it was impossible to discern. Grabbing her friend by the shoulders, Sif hauled him to his feet. It felt like moving a dead body, as he made no effort to assist in supporting his weight. “End the darkness, or I’ll drag your Jotun ass into the hallway for all of Asgard to see,” she threatened. He made no noticeable movement, but the darkness receded until it covered only his person. Fine. She didn’t need to see him naked anyway. 

Moving his body-- _corpse_ , her mind supplied--to his bedroom, Sif tossed him on the bed and went about removing his clothes. Not how she had anticipated removing his clothing, though her inability to see through his cloud of darkness at least kept his virtue intact. If there was a future for them, she could explore his person another time. If this was all they had, at least she didn’t have to see his fine form covered in Jotun blue.

She winced. Not helpful.

Once his clothes were dumped in a pile on the floor, Sif began the arduous task of bathing him. While she filled the tub, he came to life enough to sink into the bed, the illusion so thorough she wasn’t certain where the bed ended and his inky pool began. “I could have my hands all over you,” she said, “but instead you’ve chosen to become one with the linens. I begin to question what brings you desire.”

“The bed and I are one,” his muffled voice said. “Good for nothing but to bear the sweaty backsides of our superiors.”

Sif rooted through the bed as she searched for his hands. Once located, she hauled him up again, tossing him over her shoulder and marching him to the tub. “You missed your calling in life,” she told him as she dropped him into the bathwaters. A muffled curse informed her he’d hit his head on something. Good. “The theatre is where your talents would best be displayed.”

“Because I am so skilled at pretending to be something I am not?”

“Because you show more dramatics than a toddling child.” Locating his shoulders beneath the cloud of darkness, she pushed until he was completely submerged. He finally moved on his own, breaking the surface to gasp for breath. 

“Cruelty, thy name is Sif,” he gasped out between breaths.

“Stench, thy name is Loki,” she countered, plunging her soap-lathered hands into his hair. She’d been expecting a different texture, perhaps something cool, but his head felt no different than that of any Aesir.

It suddenly occurred to her that the touch of a Frost Giant was deadly, and perhaps this bathing experience was ill thought out. Yet she’d just tossed his naked person into a tub and hadn’t felt the searing cold of the Jotuns. Either the effects of their touch were exaggerated, or Loki was clinging to his Aesir form under all this darkness. 

She slowed her movement into something soft and gentle. Whether Loki cared about her wellbeing or was clinging to the vestiges of his life, it reminded her he had a heart buried beneath all those dramatics.

A Jotun with a heart. It was a thing she never had supposed. 

“Can’t bear to look upon a monster?” his voice broke through her reverie, bringing her eyes back to his inky cloud. 

“I’m not the one hiding under a cloud of darkness,” she reminded him. His illusion abruptly fell away she she got an eyeful of...everything. “For the love of Odin,” she said, averting her eyes.

“Yes, for the love of Odin indeed, an impossible gift to acquire.” The cloud of darkness returned. 

“Your father loves you,” she said, wondering if it was true. Two days prior she would not have questioned, but now, knowing Loki’s true parentage… she wondered.

Loki snorted and sunk below the water out of her reach. Leaning forward, Sif made to clear off the soap, but found Loki’s hands already at work. Their fingers briefly touched, electricity passing between them, and Sif snatched back her hands. “Finish your bath,” she ordered, leaving the room. 

Leaning against the wall, she released a slow breath. Jotun or not, that was still Loki. Having got a good look at him, she could truthfully say his Asgardian form still made her heart race, but what did that mean? Loki, darling, I might be able to overcome the inferiority of your birth, but only if you never wear the blue of your people again? What sort of message would that send? 

It occurred to her he did not know she returned his affections. 

That thought stopped her cold. Returned his affections? In spite of his true nature? What did that say bout her? Sif banged her head against the wall. She needed to talk this out with someone, but Loki was the friend she usually sought out to discuss matters with, and she did not have a backup friend to replace him. 

It had been some minutes since she last heard a sound from the bathroom. Popping her head in, she found Loki’s inky black cloud floating on the water, perhaps doing the same thing she’d done last night. It was mildly disconcerting to see the black void on the water, but better than watching a Jotun in the palace. 

Shame coursed through her. She had come here with a mission, yet here she was focusing on the negatives of Loki’s heritage rather than trying to see him for who he was. It’s hard, she thought desperately, looking up at the ceiling. I know I decided to love him for who he is, but I struggle to see anything but my enemy.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she shoved aside all feeling. Neutral ground. See him for who he is.

“You may leave. I am content for this to be my watery grave,” he called. 

Neutral ground be damned. He was annoying is what he was. Marching back into the bathroom, Sif unplugged the tub. “Get out,” she ordered. “And get dressed.” In reply Loki’s cloud of darkness seemed to wilt, slowly increasing in size to cling to the sides of the tub. “You are not dying on my watch, Loki Odinson--”

“ _Laufeyson_ ,” the cloud of darkness hissed. “I am the son of a king, Shieldmaiden, and shall be properly addressed!”

His words arrested her. _Laufeyson_? He was the son of the _king_ of Jotunheim? What had Odin been thinking, bringing back his enemy’s son? It was a miracle the realm wasn’t already at war over the slight!

Her silence dragged on, prompting Loki’s darkness to say, “Have we finally found the revelation that is too much for the Lady Sif to handle? Excellent. Now leave me here to wither and die.”

Sif stood up and left. Let him do just that.

She made it to the hallway before her thoughts broke through her shock. However she was feeling, imagine how much worse it was for him. Jotun though he may be, until three days ago he’d been just as convinced as the rest of the Realm that he was Asgardian. His relationship with Odin was already strained, but to find out his birth father was _Laufey_ \--

Taking a fortifying breath, she marched back to Loki’s tub and embraced him beneath his cloud of darkness. She felt his damp body go still, his breathing halt. Neither of them said anything, Sif clinging and Loki stiff, letting the minutes drag by, until unbidden tears spring forth and leaked onto Loki’s shoulder. 

“Weeping for a monster?”

“Do not ruin what should be a beautiful moment,” Sif said harshly. 

“A beau--”

“Shut up,” she growled, holding him closer. “You are not allowed to speak.”

He shut up, one of his hands hesitantly rising to rest lightly against her back. Sif forced her mind to remember it was Loki touching her, not the scourge of her childhood. Loki. 

Loki.

Loki.

She clung harder, her attempts to stifle her tears failing. Her sleeve felt damp, and, to her surprise, she realized it was wet with Loki’s tears. 

Not a word was spoken, the only sound their laboured breaths. They clung to each other until their tears and her sleeve dried. At last they relaxed, and Sif let go. “Now, we eat,” she said, and wordlessly Loki followed her into his bedroom to get dressed.

*

Food was another battle as Loki refused to eat. 

He didn’t say a word, but any time Sif offered him food from the tray retrieved from the kitchens, his cloud of darkness scooted slightly further away. If he inched back much father, he was going to fall off his bed. “When was the last time you even ate?” she demanded, pondering the benefits of knocking him out and forcing something into his mouth. 

The silence was filled with the quiet sounds of servants cleaning the front room. As far as Sif could tell, Loki had collapsed on the floor after learning the truth and hadn’t moved once, even for mundane necessities such as eliminating, which accounted for most of the smell in the front room. It was why they were now eating--well, Sif was eating, Loki was Having a Mood--on his bed. 

“I’m not going to let you wither away and die, no matter how rudely you ask. Now eat something!”

The shadow didn’t so much as quiver. 

With a sigh, Sif sat up and tackled Loki, wrestling him until she was straddling his waist, then located his mouth, pried his jaw open, and shoved bread in. When he refused to chew, she stuffed more bread in. “You may either swallow it or choke on it,” she calmly informed him, stuffing yet more bread in. She couldn’t see his face through his cloud of darkness, but she felt his glare and could feel his resentment as he started to chew. “Good boy,” she said condescendingly, patting his jaw. 

“Why do you care so much?” he demanded, mouth full. 

Grabbing his jaw and holding his face still, she stared intently where his eyes should be. “Because I do. Now eat.”

He wouldn’t be Loki if anything were easy, so she had to shove more food in and hold his mouth closed so he couldn’t spit it back out. It was getting tiring. “You’re being petty,” she informed him. “If you truly desired to end your life, there are much more effective ways than starving to death.”

“I’m not ending my life, I‘m making a point.”

“Not very well, as I’m your only audience and I can’t tell what it is.”

Without warning he flipped their positions so he was on top, then crawled off, reaching for a grape. Sif tried to still her pounding heart. “Go away,” he said. 

There was something amusing about watching a cloud of darkness eat individual grapes. If she didn’t know better, she would assume the being inside the cloud was a petulant child. In fact, she could imagine Loki as a child in this exact position, and smiled. She made a mental note to ask Frigga if such a thing had ever occurred.

If she could bring herself to speak to the Allmother. As much as Sif was struggling to accept Loki’s nature, she was far more angry with his mother--and his father. “How do you handle it?” she asked quietly, staring up at the ceiling. “How do you handle knowing your parents willfully lied to you about what you are?”

The cloud laughed. “Handling it, am I?” he said self-deprecatingly, a tendril of blackness indicating his person. “What a unique perspective you have.”

Reaching out, Sif lightly placed her fingers on his back. He felt normal. Did all monsters feel normal? What was monstrous, anyway? At the moment, the choices of Loki’s parents seemed far more monstrous than his nature. “Does Thor know?”

The cloud stiffened and moved away. Sif could sense she said something wrong, but did not understand what it was. 

Loki refused to speak to her for the rest of the day, and no amount of prodding on her part would induce him to reveal why. At least he finished eating. When she refused to leave his side (you can’t learn to love something if you don’t spend time with it), he crawled into bed and stayed there, his cloud of darkness huddled under a blanket. It was surprisingly cute, and Sif almost smiled.

Almost.

*

The next three days continued in much the same vein, though with significantly less talking. When probed, Loki would offer one syllable responses, but otherwise offered no words. It was a far cry from his usual inability to shut up, and it worried Sif. Something more than his Jotun heritage was eating at him, but what, she could not guess. 

On the third day, Sif was called away from Loki’s side by Thor’s return. “Stay here,” she commanded the shadow, “and do not do anything stupid.” A tall order, but one she fervently hoped he would fill. 

Loki made no response. His cloud of darkness seemed to grow darker still, which Sif found mildly disturbing.

She found Thor and the Three as they were crossing the Great Hall, raucous laughter following them. “Sif!” Fandral cried, spotting her first. “You missed a grand hunt in the snow! We nearly lost Volstagg to an avalanche, but Hogun’s quick thinking saved our friend. And then, my favourite part--Thor had to huddle naked with yet another of our friends to save a life! I have 200 gold riding on whether Hogun or myself will be his next frosty cuddle partner.”

“It was surprisingly, pleasant,” Volstagg confided. “He lacks the curves of my Hildegunde, but his warmth and jovial nature made up for it!”

“You were far preferable to share body heat with,” Thor informed her, “though it is good to know Volstagg will do in a pinch.”

Once the laughter died down, Hogun asked her, “How fares Loki? Did you find him well?”

Sif hesitated. She hadn’t spoken to anyone but Loki and Frigga since her discovery of Loki’s true nature, and so had put forth no effort to come up with an acceptable lie--that was Loki’s specialty, not hers, and even if she had one prepared, she was a terrible liar. 

She went with “I found him.”

“Moping about, I presume?” Fandral asked, his tone ever cheery. “Disappointed he couldn’t warm his lady?”

Moping and disappointed, certainly, but not for any reason Fandral would fathom. Ignoring the comment, she said to Thor, “Your mother would speak with you when you have a moment. It is...somewhat important.”

“But only somewhat?” he asked. “For I have a wench awaiting my report of our success and glory.”

“The wench can wait,” Sif told him seriously. “Go see your mother.”

Thor paused, assessing her words, then said, “Very well. I leave you all for the moment, but we shall reconvene back here for dinner when our story is shared with all of Asgard!” 

Thor strode off toward Frigga’s apartments, and Sif followed, far enough behind that Thor did not engage her in conversation and possibly was not aware of her presence. She would not participate in his impending conversation, but she did want to know his response to the news. She desperately wanted to enlist an ally in dealing with Loki. 

The door was already shut when she made her approach. Full of too much nervous energy, Sif paced back and forth for over an hour, until at last Thor emerged. His face was troubled, and his eyes immediately sought hers. “You know?” he asked softly. 

“I have been with him these past three days, his person shrouded in a cloud of darkness. Thor, I cannot reach him, and I don’t know what to do.”

Thor shook his head. “If your acceptance won’t penetrate his depression, I don’t know what I can do.”

“You must try,” she implored, her hand resting lightly on his bicep.

After a heavy moment of silence, Thor agreed to try, moving towards Loki’s rooms. 

What Sif did not say was her acceptance was of little use if Loki could not embrace it himself. If the truth bothered Thor so little, he was a far better person than she to face his brother.

Please get through to him, she silently begged. He needs you.

**

_Visitor, visitor,_ Loki’s door whispered as it opened. When had a new door been installed? Sif had quite thoroughly demolished the last one, and Loki’s illusion door held no substance. Perhaps the servants had accomplished the task sometime these last few days. Had it been days? Or merely hours? Loki couldn’t tell anymore. 

His shroud of darkness sat comfortably on his shoulders where it belonged. Monster that he was, Loki did not deserve to see the light of day. He should really save the Realm a lifetime of trouble and end himself, but the problem with being in love with oneself was it made it remarkably difficult to consider termination.

_Visitor, visitor,_ his door whispered again. So Sif had returned. Loki hadn’t expected her to. He hadn’t expected her to arrive at all, let alone stay by his side as long as she had. Finding him pitiable was apparently all it took to hold her attention and get her to his bed. He should have discovered the horror of his nature long ago. 

Not that she held any fondness for him. She attempted to hide it, but Loki saw the revulsion in her eyes, the struggle to remain supportive clearly warring with her desire to eliminate her enemy. He couldn’t blame her; who could love a beast, even one purported to be a friend?

“Brother?”

_Thor_.

Loki didn’t think there was anyone he wanted to avoid more than Sif, but in his melancholy over losing any chance he had with the woman he loved, he’d forgotten about the golden boy, the perfect son, the heir to the Realm. 

“It’s so dark in here, brother! I cannot see you!”

Ah, yes. Loki’s shroud of darkness had spread again in Sif’s absence. Had he been left alone much longer, the darkness would have encircled the whole of his apartments, leaving his soul on display for all to see. He, basest of creatures, was unworthy of light. 

“Loki, don’t make me swim through this night to find you. I might step on you.”

Hardly. Loki was spread out on his bed, having shuffled over to Sif’s usual spot in a sad attempt to catch her scent. Thor might trip and fall on top of Loki, an incident that last week would have provided endless fodder for jokes, but now...well, now Loki wished it would happen. Death by squashing via the crown prince. Ignominious, to be certain, but a memorable death. Sif would laugh about it for years. 

_Sif_.

Anguish. She would never see him as worthy now.

The bed shook violently, Thor grunting an equally violent curse. Loki couldn’t even conjure up a smile.

“I spoke with Mother,” Thor said. “She explained to me about your--”

“ _Silence_ ,” Loki growled. “Do not speak such blasphemy in the hallowed halls of--”

“Silence yourself,” Thor said testily. “I may say what I--”

And an argument was sparked. 

“--prince doesn’t give you unending rights--”

“--wallowing in sorrow is more pathetic than--”

“--to sully the halls of Gladsheim with such base--”

“--a crying child upset over a toy--”

“--parents so deeply ashamed--”

“--like it matters, Sif loves you--”

“--should have been left to die--”

“--pacing like a mother hen, I’ve never seen her so agitated--”

“--to the benefit of the Realm, so do us all a favour--”

“--make her cry and I’ll stab you--”

“--and end my life here.”

“ _What_?” Thor boomed so loudly, interrupting their flow of words. “I’m not ending your life!”

“Why not?” Loki said, voice bored. “It’s not worth much. A new sword has more value. In fact, once I’m dead, use my remains to fashion a sword out of bone. Won’t do you much good, but that would be an accurate reflection of my life, yes?”

A pillow slammed into Loki, wielded with enough strength to knocked the breath out of him. “You asinine little snake,” Thor said. “I hope you haven’t been spouting this nonsense to Sif. Mother said she’s been with you nearly every minute of the last three days. You ought to have showered her with flowery words!”

“To what end? She’s only here because Mother-- _Frigga_ \--put her up to it. We all know Sif would rather be with you.”

The pillow hit Loki again, this time in the face. He grunted. “For someone so full of secrets, you are blind to the greatest secret of them all.”

“Not anymore.” Loki would never again be blind to the fact that one touch from his true form could kill his former friends and family. It was hard to fantasize about Sif anymore, when every fantasy ended with a kiss that left her dead, frozen through. Though he never intended to look at his Jotun form again, his blue, ridged skin was seared into his memory. The image would bring nightmares for the rest of his life. 

No, he would never again be blind to that secret.

“Really?” Thor asked, the surprise in his voice surprising Loki. “Sif confessed?”

“To what? Murder?”

“To loving you.”

Loki snorted so hard his shroud of darkness shook, too. “She loves me the way one loves a bilgesnipe: not at all. Her eye has always been on you.”

“You _are_ a halfwit.”

Loki sighed, a long, depressed sound. Tendrils of darkness curled outward, increasing the size of his gloom. 

“And what is with this shadow, brother? It hides nothing.” It hid everything. Loki desired his face to never be viewed again. “Whatever colour you are, you are still Loki. Dramatic, self-centered, sometimes brave--”

Loki waved a hand, stealing Thor’s voice. It was becoming cumbersome and disturbing his malaise.

He really should have anticipated the fist that landed on his nose. 

With blood spurting everywhere, Loki sat up lest he choke on it. “Heathen! Brute!”

A second swing hit him in the shoulder. How like his brother to revert to violence without even attempting other means of communication. Loki considered hitting Thor back, but that took too much energy, and besides--didn’t he deserve the pain and misery accompanying his brother’s blows? (Another hit on his upper arm.) Enemies of the Realm didn’t deserve mercy or a soft hand. Lying down, Loki took several more punches to the stomach. With each new blow, he mentally catalogued every prank he’d ever pulled on his family and friends, compiling a lengthy list of reasons why he deserved the treatment he was receiving. 

Thor had a powerful arm, leaving bruises in the wake of his fist. Loki reverted to his Jotun form, the form that especially deserved this abuse. Each punch landed on newly ridged skin, seeming to hurt so much more than it did when Loki was in Aesir form. It struck him suddenly that he was destined to master illusions, considering he’d pulled one over his own eyes almost from birth. He laughed, bitter. 

Monsters hid under the cover of darkness, but a Frost Giant did not deserve such measures. Dropping his illusion and his hold on Thor’s voice, Loki was greeted by Thor’s gloved fist halting just above his nose. Loki glared up at his brother, red eyes and blue skin arresting Thor’s movement entirely. Thor stared.

“Wow, you’re ugly.”

Loki immediately rolled over.

“Though it could be the bruising I just forced upon your epidermis. I’d apologize, but you deserved it.”

“Brute.”

“Yes, yes, you’ve already said that.” Thor’s voice suddenly turned thoughtful. “I bet Sif would kiss it all better.”

Loki enveloped himself in darkness once again, resuming his Aesir form. “She should kiss your fist better, as she cannot bear to look upon me. She despises the truth of my nature.”

“Really?” Thor asked, sounding surprised once again. “Because Mother tells me Sif has spent the last three days constantly at your side. That doesn’t sound like derision to me.”

“We’ve been over this. The Allmother ordered it, and Sif, loyal dog, leapt to obey.”

“You know, you are so determined to hate yourself that you haven’t noticed you’re the only one doing the hating.”

Hate. An excellent word, that. Wrapping himself in it, Loki let the self-loathing seep into his soul.

“If you aren’t careful, brother, you will lose her before you ever had her.”

She deserved better than an enemy shrouded in darkness, too depressed to leave his sad bed, but not depressed enough to end his sadder life. 

Thor left at some point, but Loki took no notice. 

*

His next visitor reeked of determination, striding with purpose into his apartments (now wholly shrouded in black, darker than a moonless night). When would his well-meaning associates give up and let him waste away into nothingness? It was little more than he deserved. 

With no illumination, it took the determined visitor a moment to locate his room and his bed, but the directness of the individual’s path informed Loki it must be Sif. As she drew closer he could smell her unique scent, and mourned the romance a creature of nightmares could never have with the fiercely proud shieldmaiden. 

She said nothing, her hands searching the bed for his form. When he was discovered, she removed him from his cocoon, slung him over her shoulder, and stomped out of his apartments. Once it was clear they were passing the threshold, Loki panicked and gathered his darkness to his person. He was not worthy to see the light of day! Struggling violently, he hissed, “Do not manhandle a prince of the Realm!”

“So you admit you belong here,” Sif’s terse voice replied, her stride increasing. 

Loki regretted his words and stilled his thrashing. “No,” he said dully, hanging limply over her shoulder and getting a lovely view of her backside. Sif growled something unintelligible and increased her speed again. 

He wondered what it looked like, an incensed Shieldmaiden toting an indefinable shape shrouded in darkness as she stalked through the halls. In another life, it would have given him amusement to picture. Now he merely hoped she was leading him to his death.

“Sif!” a jovial voice cried out. “I see Odin has you cleaning up the refuse. How the mighty have fallen! Tell me, what did you do to earn such menial labour?”

Loki cringed. Fandral. Why couldn’t he just die in peace?

“This pouting sack of horse excrement is getting sense knocked into it,” Sif said pleasantly. 

“I see,” Fandral said, clearly not seeing at all. “Do you need assistance?”

Sif’s steps momentarily faltered. “Not yet,” she said slowly, “but if my next attack proves unsuccessful, public humiliation may be the key.”

Fandral clapped his hands in delight while Loki stiffened. “I’m always up for public humiliation, my own or others’!”

“I’ll be in touch,” Sif said, and she moved on.

“Cruel taskmistress,” Loki muttered. 

“Insolent child,” she shot back. 

Next thing he knew, Loki was tossed haphazardly into a pool of freezing water. It shocked him into dropping all of his illusions, leaving him sitting in his natural Jotun blue. His eyes met Sif’s, the heat of her glare entirely unpleasant. He quickly returned to his preferred Aesir aesthetic. It struck him that once the initial jolt of icy waters passed, he did not mind sitting in the cold water. All his life, he’d never minded sitting in cold water, or wandering around in the snow, or sitting on an ice-covered landscape. He’d always exhibited Jotun qualities; he’d just been too oblivious to notice.

No wonder he hadn’t been able to warm Sif up. His apparent natural state was being an ice cube. 

“We are through with this charade,” Sif said, and Loki realized she held in her hand several of his precious scrolls. “Misbehave and I will toss these into the water one at a time.”

Self-preservation may be a bust, but Loki highly valued his library. Sitting up, he drawled, “What do you want of me?” and hoped his panic over his dangling scrolls wasn’t obvious. 

“Thor is upset,” she said. “I don’t like to see him distraught, especially when the culprit is a--”

“Piss off,” Loki said, turning his back on her. Of course she only cared about Thor. It was foolish to ever think Thor’s words had merit, to dare entertain the thought that she--

No. It did not do to dwell on could-have-beens and never-will-bes.

The sound of fluttering parchment reached his ears; he tracked the exact moment one of his precious scrolls touched water, so ancient it dissipated immediately, much like his entire life when Frigga revealed the secret of his birth. We put so much stock in fleeting things, he thought absently, sinking down into the water until he was fully submerged.

He hadn’t intended to drown himself, but Sif wasted no time in leaping in after him and dragging him to the edge. Her eyes were wild; he fancied it was concern for his wellbeing he saw there, and not worry that the royal family would blame her for his demise. “What are you doing!” she shouted more than asked as she repeatedly hit him on the back. A pointless endeavor; it did not induce him to spit up the water he did not swallow. “The situation is not so grave that you should do something so deplorable as end your own life!”

“Not so grave?” he asked calmly. “Your every reaction to me indicates otherwise.”

She pushed her damp hair out of her eyes, shivering slightly. “What do you speak of?”

“I have spent part of nearly every day with you for the last several hundred years. I know your mannerisms inside and out, and frankly, if I had to craft an illusion of every person I know, yours would be the most complete, most accurate, down to minute details, because _I know you,_ Sif. _I know you._ And your interactions with me these last few days have been that of a stranger. If you are so horrified, you who knows me best, how could I expect _anyone_ else to look upon me with favour?”

Sif ran a hand through her damp hair, her shoulders quivering with emotion. “This is difficult, Loki! I’ve been taught my whole life that Frost Giants are not only enemies of the Realm, but child-eating monsters who we should fear and eliminate on sight. My whole life, Loki! This isn’t some fleeting fancy--it was indoctrinated into me from an early age! Try as I might, I cannot just alter the state of my mind in the blink of an eye!”

“Yes!” Loki roared, partially rising. “Exactly! I was taught the same doctrine you were, Sif, and now I find myself staring in the mirror at my childhood nightmare! What else am I supposed to think but that I am an abomination destined for an early death? Jotuns are evil, Jotuns have no feelings, Jotuns have no heart. All of that now applies to me! Am I destined to be evil? Did I ever have a choice? If not, what is the point in perpetuating this misery? Just end my sad, pathetic existence now!”

“No!” she said fiercely. “I cannot be so cavalier about ending the life of a beloved friend!”

“Beloved,” Loki scoffed. “So beloved you can barely stand to look at me?”

“I’m trying!” she shouted back. “I’m trying! Everything about you is supposed to repulse me but I’m working through it because I will not watch you wither away without some meager attempt at intervention on my part, _even though_ my every instinct is telling me to attack!”

“You claim you cannot alter your state of mind in the blink of an eye, yet you did just that. You went from valuing our friendship to labelling me Monster with a snap of the fingers. I am the lowest of creatures when centuries of friendship are overwritten by a fact of biology I had nothing to do with and knew nothing about.”

Her fierce expression faltered, a stream of emotions flickering in her eyes. 

“So do not tell me, Lady Sif, Shieldmaiden of Asgard, how difficult this is for you when you know _nothing_ of the difficulty of having the one person whose attention, respect, and regard you crave most, look at you like you are a worm.”

She stared at him, her eyes boring into his as they both breathed hard, the air around them tight with tension. This was it. He had finally pushed her too hard, and her next action would be to walk away and leave him forever. Despite his words, despite his absolute conviction that she would be doing the right thing, Loki wished desperately that once, just this once, she would prove him wrong, embrace him, and love a monster.

Despair engulfed him. She would never. 

He witnessed the exact moment Sif came to a decision, but instead of turning away, her face crumpled and, unexpectedly, she fell forward, pulling Loki into a tight embrace. Hot tears fell onto his shoulder, in contrast with his cold clothing. “Loki,” she whispered, his name sounding like a prayer. “Loki, my Loki.” Her grip tightened, his breathing arrested. She couldn’t… She… wouldn’t… 

Yet she was.

“I was so busy hating my enemy, I forgot to see you,” she whispered. “You are right to censure me, for I have been horrid. You are Loki first and foremost, and all other labels and roles fall secondary to that.”

Her acceptance pierced him in a way Thor’s and Frigga’s hadn’t, entering his weary soul and filling in the cracks. His hands flew up and gripped her, hard; he felt he was holding together every piece of his soul, and if he faltered for even a moment, his self would fall away into oblivion. 

He held on for a long time.

When his breathing stabilized and Sif’s tears dried, they drew back, just enough for a scroll, maybe two, to fit between them, but no more. “I cannot promise perfection,” she said in such a way that Loki’s heart started pounding, “but I’ll do my best to see you for who you are, based on your actions, rather than what you are because of biology.” And she kissed him.

It stole his breath away, much like learning his true heritage had, but instead of leaving him curled in a ball yearning for a swift end, it ignited a flame, leaving him aching for more: more love, more life, more Sif.

He wanted to _live_.

Drawing Sif nearer, he wrested control of the kiss from her and deepened it. She yielded control willingly, turning pliant and soft in his arms. It was bliss.

“You’re cold,” Sif murmured as she pulled back ever so slightly, giving him a heated look. “This time, let’s see if I can’t warm you up.”

She could, and she did.

*

“When did this happen?” Fandral asked, indicating Sif draped across Loki at that evening’s supper.

“All afternoon and all evening, by the looks of it,” Volstagg chortled. Sif lobbed a turkey leg at him, which he deftly caught and ate, while Loki rolled his eyes. 

“It’s been a long time coming,” Sif said, running her hand down Loki’s arm. He shivered. 

“Yes, but _when_?” Fandral pressed. “One must mark when miracles occur.” Sif rolled her eyes, informing him it was new as of that day. “Damn,” he said, clapping Hogun on the back. “I owe you a night at the tavern.”

“I believe I upped my bet to an entire week at the tavern,” Hogun said calmly. 

“I believe you upped it to two weeks,” Volstagg offered.

“Don’t remind him!” Fandral cried. “We’ll all be broke when he drinks us under the table!”

“At least we can provide amusement to our entourage,” Loki said, sipping his wine. 

Thor burst into the hall, cloaked in worry. “I can’t find Loki!” he shouted. “He’s gone--” he cut off, spotting Loki, who tilted his wine glass toward his brother. “I can see you,” Thor said, shocked.

“I too, am always alarmed when I wake in the morning and can see through these things we call eyes,” Fandral said unhelpfully. 

“I mean he’s visible,” Thor said. “You’re visible.” He finally registered Loki’s position and his jaw dropped. “Sif!” he shouted joyously. “Loki! This is wonderful! I need a court painter.”

“Very logical,” Volstagg said. “Capture the moment so there’s evidence Hogun won the wager.”

“You’re annoying, the whole lot of you,” Loki informed them, pouring himself another glass of wine. 

“Stay where you are,” Thor said, rushing off. He returned shortly with his court painter and with Frigga, bellowing directions about staging and lighting and ordering everyone not to move, an order no one listened to. Frigga met Loki’s eyes, hers damp with emotion and her hand hovering over her mouth as she gave him her mother’s look, full of love and compassion. Tilting his glass toward her, Loki nodded almost imperceptibly. Frigga dropped her hand, revealing a brilliant, if watery, smile. 

The drama surrounding Loki’s parentage was far from over. Eventually the Three would find out, and hopefully one day all of Asgard would learn the truth, after a long and calculated campaign to normalize the Jotuns. There were long conversations ahead with Frigga, and eventually with Odin, most of which Loki was sure would be extremely painful. 

He laced his fingers with Sif’s, lifting her hand to grace it with a gentle kiss. She smiled, her eyes focused solely on him. Far from over and extremely painful, perhaps, but with Sif by his side, doable. 

And if he got to occupy his between times by perfecting his ability to warm Sif while sharing a bed, well, he couldn’t have asked for a better fate.


End file.
